Snap Shot
by Nekobaghira
Summary: (FINISHED!) Mercy Lebeau visits her brother in law, but trouble follows when she meets Iceman.
1. Chapter 1

Snapshot - Part 1

* * *

With a grimace, Gambit looked at the photograph that stood on his sister-in- law's dressing table. It showed Rogue, Mercy, Bobby and himself standing in a park on bright, sunny day. In the backdrop, a clear stream rippled and murmured, fringed on either side by long grass and reeds. Trees, white and heavy with flowers, formed a canopy above them. It would have been a beautiful picture for a beautiful, summer day, if it had not been for one tiny but significant detail. Mercy - he swallowed, feeling suddenly nauseous - Mercy had her hand on Bobby's butt and a smirk on her face that suggested it was one of the nicest butts of her acquaintance. 

A low groan escaped his lips. When Tante Mattie had suggested a united Guild family picnic, he had been pleased. Both of them had been determined to get the Guilds and the people in them to behave more like the family they had to be now. With the Guilds being as small as they were now, it was a perfect opportunity to try and forge the ties that would prevent another civil war. They had known it would not be easy. Ants were the least of their problems, to put it mildly. He had fully expected the plastic knives to be used in ways that their inventor had not intended. And, having witnessed first hand the murderous potential of a boisenberry pie, he shuddered to think of what the assassins and thieves might do with icecream. Still, he had not expected Bobby and Mercy to spend the whole day groping each other in public - and private! - places. 

Remy sighed shaking his head. Once Mercy set her mind (or hands) to something (or someone), there was no point in trying to dissuade her. He had known there would be trouble when Mercy paid him a call at the X-Men's Westchester mansion. She said that she had news of the Guild that could not wait until he returned. It turned out that it could have waited or she could have called, but her curiosity was piqued. She wanted to see his "other life". He suspected that that had a great deal to do with the spandex costumes she knew the X-Men wore. As his sister-in-law was fond of saying, she liked to know what she was getting before she brought it home with her. She had seen her lawyer about suing the inventor of baggies for a) false advertising and b) emotional distress. Fortunately, he had advised her against the case. 

Clearly, however, Mercy was a woman who stuck by her principles, such as they were. She could not be accused of hiding her flame under a bushel. Her arrival caused a stir at the Xavier Mansion, mostly due to her . . . attire. Remy was not sure whether he could call what she was wearing clothes. It seemed more like paint or possibly a tattoo. She had teamed a loud, scarlet shirt with the barest suggestion of a leather skirt. Even the top's vee-neck was decidedly a capital letter. If she had been an assassin, he might have thought the dress was a secret weapon, because she was certainly dressed to kill. 

As it was, Bobby was her first victim . . . . 


	2. Chapter 2

Snapshot - Part 2

* * *

Giving the motorcycle its head, Mercy roared down the private road that led to the Westchester mansion. Trees and bushes rushed past her in a green blur. Clouds of dust rose around her, hiding her from view, and small stones ricocheted off her bike's bodywork. Her long, blonde hair whipped across her face, flying behind her like a defiant flag. More than one traffic cop had stopped her in her career, and let her off with a mumbled "your face is too pretty to waste in an accident, miss, so wear a helmet" at a single smile from her. 

"Dieu, I love my Harley," she yelled, words swallowed up by her speed. 

Her love of motorcycles had begun the first morning that she had sneaked out Remy's baby and had ridden it straight into Lake Pontchartrain. She had been fine - apart from water-stains all over her favourite, silk blouse - but the bike had been decidedly worse for wear. It had been covered with weeds and had spluttered sadly and almost apologetically when she had tried to start it. Her brother-in-law had been furious with her, alternating between yelling about her almost being killed and her wrecking his beloved bike. Which he washed and waxed every day and never drove at above 20 mph, he had added with a tragic expression. Remy was a dear, she thought, but he was anal about so many things. 

Anyway, the result of her scrape was that he had taken her to buy a bike of her own that afternoon. The salesman - a small, thin man dressed in a polyester suit with a rodent cast to his sparse moustache - had tried to persuade her a light scooter was better for her purposes. He had looked so horrified when she had said that, like all sensible women, she preferred something with a bit more power between her legs. He had not argued about giving her this baby after that, she thought with a smirk and a pat to the bike. 

The mansion loomed large and white around the corner and she slammed on the brakes, stopping in a spray of gravel before the doorway. The X-Men's hideout was even fancier than Remy had described it. It had been built in the days when elegance and refinement had meant something - usually, inbreeding, bloodsports and gin and tonics in the parlour - and had not lost any of its indefinable charm in the passing centuries. 

"Daddy Warbucks has fancy digs," she said approvingly, as she dismounted gracefully and made her way up to the steps. 


	3. Chapter 3

Snapshot - Part 3

* * *

"GOSH DARN IT!" Bobby tried to swear as the screech of tyres on gravel cut through his concentration and Bash Possum plunged helplessly into the deep pit. The machine played an absurdly jaunty tune to mark the occasion, and he threw down his controller in a fit of anger. He had been stuck for hours on this stage and the end of the level had finally been in sight too. He could see its marker bobbing mockingly in the distance, right below the floating Game Over. 

There was only one person who could have been that inconsiderate, that stupid, that downright JERKY . . . . 

"REMY!" he screeched as he stomped down the stairs and threw open the door, "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" 

The person standing there was decidedly not Gambit, unless the Cajun had had a sex-change operation of which Iceman was unaware. He shuddered at the idea, then stopped thinking all together when he got a better look at her. She was tall and blonde with the sort of body that he thought only existed in girlie magazines and even then was the product of photomanipulation. Her dress suggested that that might be what she did for a living. 

"Hey, hot mama," he said in his best Austin-Powers-meets-Johnny-Bravo voice. 

She raised an eyebrow, "Hey, cool cat." 

Iceman was surprised and gratified. He had spoken to her for two seconds and she had not slapped him\kicked him\kneed him\poured her drink over his head\thrown him into a tank of live lobsters. His libido launched into the Bash Possum victory jingle. Clearly, she was into him. 

Emboldened by his success, he ventured his favourite line: "Are those moonpants because your butt is out of this world?" 

Looking him up and down with a significant smirk on her face, "No, but I'm sure you could take me there. You certainly have a large enough . . . rocket, don't you?" 

Bobby went crimson, stuffing his hands over his mouth to keep himself from giggling like a schoolgirl. Women were not meant to know single-entendres. They were not meant to say things like that. They were meant to smile and dimple coyly, not openly admire his . . . well, his . . . his! 

She laughed at his embarrassment, "Poor baby. Anyway, I'd love to. . . chat with you, but I have to see Remy tout suite." 

Bobby felt his heart plummet like Bash Possum. Of course, she was here to see Gambit. All hot chicks were always here to see Gambit. They might as well install a neon sign. "If you're a hot chick, go upstairs and turn right to see Gambit." What was it with that guy? What did he have that Bobby didn't have, apart from looks, charm, exquisite dress-sense, permanently good hair and a bad boy\little boy lost appeal? And Rogue. What was up with Remy seeing other, hot chicks when he had just gotten back together with Rogue? All in all, he would never get what women saw in LeJerk LeBeau. 

"Come on in," he mumbled, "I'll fetch him for you." 


	4. Chapter 4

Snapshot - Part 4

* * *

Feeling like the head cheerleader's ugly friend, who was kept around by way of contrast, Bobby trailed Remy as they headed back to the parlor where the woman was waiting for them. The Cajun did not look pleased about her presence - his hands were clenched in fists at his side and he was muttering darkly about femmes who did not know their place was in Louisiana. That explained who she was, of course. She was Gambit's New Orleans girlfriend in the way that Rogue was his New York girlfriend. Knowing him, he had a woman for every city, town and burg, including places like Deer Tick and Sheep Dip. 

Bobby scowled at Remy's back. He hoped Rogue would find out about this indiscretion. Maybe then she would see him for the slimy creep he was and clean his clock for him. She loved him, she trusted him, she believed in him, and how did he repay her for that? He spat on all her feelings for him! He trod all over her heart! He cheated on her with the incarnation of the Playboy centrefold! Why, if she did not discover her boyfriend's indiscretion by herself, Robert Drake had a moral duty as her friend to tell her! 

Telling himself that his eagerness to see the woman again had nothing to do with her minimicroskirt but rather with a righteous desire to help Rogue, Bobby strode into the room after the Cajun at which point his brain ceased thinking and started going "homina, homina, homina". She was draped over the sofa like a lazy cat, her arms folded behind her head, her long legs stretched in front of her, her chest rising and falling. Remy, however, seemed singularly unaffected by her posture. 

"What de hell are ya doin' here?" he said without preamble. 

"I thought ya'd be pleased t'see me," she replied with an exaggeratedly hurt expression on her face, as she slid gracefully into an upright position. 

"Anything wrong?" he sounded worried. He was probably scared that she was pregnant and that he would have to get a proper job to pay the alimony, Bobby thought with grim satisfaction, rather than picking pockets and mooching off the professor. Or that she had told Rogue and the Southern Belle with the Left Cross from Hell was on her way to beat fidelity into him. 

"Nope," she replied lightly. 

"Den why are you here?" 

"Tante Mattie has put together a picnic for next Saturday and ya should be dere. Ya do lead de United Guilds, after all," she said wryly, before adding with a chuckle, "Besides, who else is goin' t'cook an' wash all de dishes f'r us?" 

So, Bobby thought, she was a member of the Thieves' Guild. He did not know much about Remy's organisation, other than the clear and undeniable fact that he did not want to know much about Remy's organisation. He liked his possessions too much to want to introduce them to the Guild. Still, he would be happy to make an exception for this woman . . . 

"You couldn't call and let me know about dis?" Remy visibly seemed to relax. 

"What? Call and miss out the look on my brother-in-law's face seeing me here?"she winked at Remy. If Bobby's body would have allowed it, his jaw would have dropped down to his knees and his eyes become larger than his head at that point. She was not Remy's piece on the side, but his sister-in-law? She was a part of his family? What sort of family could produce a rotten apple such as Gambit on one branch and a sweet peach like her on another? He felt the Bash Possum victory jingle launch into an encore in his head. He listened to the rest of their conversation with a goofy grin on his face. 

"When are ya headin' back?" 

"Not for a couple of days. Should I get a hotel?" 

"Non, non, ya can stay here." 

Bobby tried to clear his throat in such a way as to suggest that he would not mind if she stayed in his room or even in his bed. Unfortunately, as the means of communication was limited and limiting, he sounded as if he were trying to bring up a furball. Matching expressions of surprise on their faces, Remy and Mercy spun around to see Bobby still standing there. 

"Mercy, this is Bobby Drake, m'teammate," the other man said, raising an eyebrow at his team-mates presence, "Bobby, Mercy LeBeau, m'sister-in-law." 

Mercy smiled at him, "Enchante, M'sieu Drake." 

He felt his tongue tie itself into a double sheepshank in his mouth. If French was the language of love, Mercy spoke it in a way that suggested lacy negligees, mirrored ceilings and satin sheets. Helplessly, desperately, he stared at her. He had to say something smooth. He had to be suave. He had to . . . . 

"That's a weird name," he inwardly cringed as the words came out of his mouth. Even by his standards, that was the sort of lame comment that usually resulted in the jar of water on the restaurant's table being poured over his head. They had gotten off to such a good start too, he thought regretfully. He had even gotten to use his very best pick-up line on her without being beaten for it. 

However, Mercy's smile had become a decided smirk, "Momma didn't know how right she named me, 'cause 'merci' is what all de boys say de morning after. If dey can still speak, dat is," she paused, suddenly changing tack, "Ya gonna show me around chez Daddy Warbucks, Bobby?" 

"Sure," he chirped happily, holding out an arm for her. 

"An', Bobby, get her a room in de women's wing," Gambit cautioned, earning himself a slight frown from his sister-in-law. She clearly had similar ideas for the sleeping arrangements as he had had. Then, smiling sweetly at Bobby and wrapping her arm around his one, they set off on a tour of the mansion. 


	5. Chapter 5

Snapshot - Part 5

By Karen and Alexis

* * *

In her perch in the observation booth, Mercy LeBeau was quietly fuming as she watched Remy sparring with Rogue. The clack of wood on wood, as the quarterstaffs collided and rebounded, was the perfect accompaniment for her violent thoughts. She was a grown woman. Clack. She was a single, grown woman. Clack. She was a single, grown woman who could decide with whom she shared her bed. Clack. Bobby was also probably a consensual adult. Probably. Clack. Remy had no right to try and protect her virtue. Clack. She did not have any virtue to protect. Clack. She would tell him that and to damn well keep his nose out of her business. Clack. Clack. Clack. 

With that end in mind, she steeled herself in advance against the charms of a shirtless Remy. Why did he have to choose to practise in only a pair of red, boxer shorts? Not that it mattered. She was too angry at him to be swayed by his perfect pectorals, by the faint sheen of sweat, by the light fuzz of hair, by all that touchable, bronzed skin . . . She brought herself up short, forcing herself to look away from his chest. She was not going to admire him. She was furious with him. How dare he tell Bobby to get her a room in the women's wing! How dare the young man listen to him! She would get her brother-in-law for that! 

For all people said that the best revenge was living well, it was not a creed to which Mercy subscribed. She had a more operatic notion of vengeance and operas were never sung about people who lived well in order to spite their foes. "He has robbed you of your family fortune, Siegfried? Of the woman you adored, Siegfried? How shall you avenge yourself? What terrible vengeance shall you wreak?" was never answered by "Well, gee, I'm just going to marry another swell girl and have two, swell kids and open a swell shoestore in Hoboken and live so goshdarn well." So, that meant she had to find a way of paying him back. 

Contemplatively, Mercy's eyes went to Remy's companion. That could only be Rogue. She was a tall, slender woman with green eyes and an unusual white streak in her chestnut hair. Pepe lePew had found his skunk, she thought with some amusement, and she was every bit the prude that the painted cats were in the cartoon. She was dressed in loose, black tracksuit pants and a grey tanktop with the words XHL printed across her breasts. XXL was more like it, Mercy quipped to herself. The woman could have hardly been wearing less revealing and more sensible clothes. Didn't she know that exercising was the perfect opportunity to flaunt what she had, that there was a reason sex was three letters of spandex? She rolled her eyes, then grinned as something occurred to her. Yes, Rogue would be perfect. She could get back at her brother-in-law and outrage Miss Priss at the same time. 

Mercy smirked, running a hand through her tousled hair and sauntering down the steps that led into the Danger Room. When she arrived, she cleared her throat to announce her presence. The couple paused in their sparring, turning to face her. Rogue raised an eyebrow at the woman in front of her. 

"Dere's somet'ing wrong here," Mercy purred without preamble, "Why am I de one dat's so hot when ya be de one exercising?" 

Remy's expression grew dark, "I t'ought I made m'feelings about our relationship clear, Mercy. Ya're a sister t'me an' no more." 

Mercy smothered an impatient sigh. A while ago, after Henri had died at the hands of the assassins and widowed her, she had tried to put the moves on the other LeBeau brother and had been rebuffed. Remy was loyal to his brother, even in death, and would not hear of dishonouring his memory with her. She still regretted the incident. She would not have acted that way under normal circumstances, but she had been lonely and Remy had been there for her. It had seemed like a way of forgetting at the time. She was glad that he had had the good sense to stop her. He was a beautiful boy and a sore temptation at times, but their relationship was too good to spoil with sex. 

Instead, turning her most brilliant smile on the woman standing next to him, "Who said I was talkin' t'ya, mon cher beaufrere?" 

Rogue's green eyes widened a fraction in surprise, but she returned Mercy's smile with a smoky one of her own. Reaching out a finger to trace her cheek, she cooed: "Ah'm flattered, sugah, but Ah'm way out of yo' league." 

"Ever tried playing for de other team, cherie?" 

"Yeah, but it wasn't as much fun without th' . . ." Rogue paused, the corner of her lips twitching slightly, " . . . baseballs. Still, lookin' at you, Ah might be persuaded to . . . er, transfer." 

For the first time in her life, Mercy was at a loss for words. Working her mouth, she stared at the young woman in front of her. Rogue was leaning on her staff, her free hand on her hip and a speculative expression on her face. To all intents and purposes, she seemed to be checking the other woman out, although that was frankly impossible. That had to be impossible. She was in love with Remy and they were a serious couple, if the months they had been together were any indication, but . . . . Mercy suddenly realised what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of her own looks. This was not what she had anticipated from Miss Priss. She had expected her to be shocked. She had definitely not expected her to come on to her and dump her all that the same time. Her brother-in-law's reaction was almost enough to make up for her being floored, however. Remy was staring at his girlfriend in open and frank amazement, although there was something about his mouth that might have been amusement too. He evidently had not seen this side of sweet, virginal Rogue. 

"Ya're busy," she said lamely to him, "We'll talk later about de picnic." 

The impossible woman flashed another quicksilver smile at her, "Ah'm also going t'be there. We'll . . . talk about that too." 

As she turned and walked away, she heard Rogue say something in a low voice and her brother-in-law begin to laugh. Her fists clenched at her side. Her revenge on Remy might have been postponed, perhaps, but that did not mean he had escaped it. Siegfried launched into another chorus in her head. 

* * *

TBC! 


	6. Chapter 6

Snapshot - Part 6

By Karen and Alexis

* * *

For the first time in his life, Remy felt a need for the barfbag that the airline provided and his queasiness had nothing to do with any turbulence that the plane might have been experiencing. Directly across the aisle from him, Bobby and Mercy were making what appeared to be a valiant attempt to join the Mile High Club. They had been kissing ever since the stewardess had told them they could unbuckle their seatbelts, and he was afraid one of them might need the emergency oxygen masks soon. He would have hoped the shade of blue that Bobby was turning had to do with his ice powers, but he was too angry with both of them to spare much compassion for either. 

Mercy, confirmed sneak that she was, had not told him that Bobby was accompanying her to New Orleans until it had been too late for him to do anything about it. That was, he had only known about the addition to their party when he and Rogue had arrived at the airport and found Bobby waiting for them with suitcase in hand, grin on face and loudest shirt on chest. He had said that Mercy told him he could come to a picnic they were having, that she had asked Remy and he had given his permission. The resulting argument had almost caused them to miss their flight, by which time it was too late to dump de Drake. 

"I shouldn' have let Mercy book de tickets," he told Rogue again, just in case she had not heard him the other fifty times. Sweet, sympathetic woman that she was, she would understand his point of view and support him. She would realise that Guild peace was still too tenuous to jeopardise by allowing a tactless loud-mouth like Bobby to attend the picnic. She would see the security risk he posed, if he learnt too much and spoke to the wrong people. She would agree that Robert Drake should be put on the first flight back to New York. Heck, she might even volunteer to fly him back to the mansion.... 

Eyes not leaving her magazine for a second, "For God's sake, Rem, you sound like a broken record. Now, shut up an' let me read." 

Sinking sulkily back into his seat, Remy glanced over to see what she was reading. It was the copy of Ms.Information that she had picked up at the airport store, obviously much thumbed by other customers. The article to which she had it open had the ominous title of "Dominatricks: How to Get Your Man to Do Precisely What You Want!!!!" Ms.Information's attitude to exclamation marks was evidently the same as their attitude to handsome, young men, judging by the two pouting from the cover and the article. If one was good, two were better and a hundred were more like it. He was about to point out that he would not take relationship advice from people whose idea of punctuation - and hunks - was quantity over quality, but Rogue preempted him. 

"Do you mind not reading over my shoulder? It's rude." 

"Dat's one article ya don't need, cherie," he muttered darkly to himself, folding his arms across his chest and glaring balefully at the back of the head of the person in front of them. Rogue, fortunately, was too engrossed in learning how to make him jump through hoops to hear him. Otherwise, he might have ended up being forcefed Ms.Information and it still would have tasted better than most of the food the airline gave them. 

Everyone was turning against him, he thought. Mercy had brought Bobby along with her, despite Remy making it perfectly clear that he was slightly less desirable than a Biblical plague. Remy would cheerfully have seen the Mississippi turn to blood and frogs rain down over New Orleans before having Bobby come to a picnic with them. Rogue was obviously at that sensitive time of month when he usually scheduled his trips back home and\or cowered in his room in abject fear. Even the stewardess had refused him another packet of peanuts when he had asked her. Apparently, he had his fair share. He gave the back of the head another venomous look. All in all, he would be glad when they touched down in New Orleans. 


	7. Chapter 7

Snapshot - Part 7

By Karen and Alexis

* * *

When Bobby arrived in New Orleans, he discovered that Gambit had made arrangements for them to stay at the lush Royal Sonesta Hotel, which was located on the Rue Bourbon. It was breathtaking, to say the least. The walls and drapings gleamed gold, and contained a number of lounges and large, open areas that were perfect for gatherings. Around various corners, he found beautiful, green courtyards where plants grew and bloomed. They reminded him of Ororo's loft with its exotic plants and air of being in a tropical paradise. A little more exploration also revealed a swimming pool and an excellent restaurant; both of which he hoped to visit at a later stage. Facing the pool area, mercifully removed from perpetual party that was the Rue Bourbon, their rooms lived up to the promise of the rest of the hotel. 

All in all, he had been very surprised when their taxi drew up in front of it. It had not been what he had expected from Remy, had asked about fifty times whether they were in the right place. When he had heard that the Cajun was organising their accommodations, he had automatically thought 'rathole motel' where all rooms came with ensuite cockroaches and crack dealers. He had not thought five stars. He consoled himself with the thought that it was exactly like Remy to spend the professor's money on an overly expensive hotel. He was such an ungrateful moocher! 

Once they had settled into the hotel and had checked into their rooms - with Remy insisting that Mercy and he had separate ones, never mind that the hypocite was sharing with Rogue! - they had made plans for dinner at Broussard's, one of the finest restaurants in the French Quarter. And, as tended to be the case when men and women dressed for the same function, Bobby was ready some hours before his date. Consequently, six o'clock found him in Mercy's room drumming his fingers against his thigh, and wondering whether any woman was capable of spending anything less than a week primping in the bathroom. She had said that she was going to take a shower before they went down to dinner, but he suspected that they would barely make Christmas dinner at the rate that she was going. 

"Are you ever going to be out, Mercy?" 

"I'm jus' puttin' on lipstick," a Cajun drawl said from behind the closed door. 

Bored, he checked his reflection in the full-length mirror and debated whether to button his jacket or leave it unbuttoned. It was the sort of profound, philosophical speculation that was commonly found in post-office queues and dentist's waiting-rooms. Hazel eyes narrowed critically as he examined himself. Either way, the combination of white suit and black shirt would have done Bond himself proud. He definitely had a license to thrill. 

"Are you ready yet?" 

"No, I'm not," irritation tinged her voice, "Go to the bar and wait for me dere. I promise ya dat I'm worth de wait, though . . . ." 

Realising that his getting lucky that night depended on keeping Mercy happy, he sulkily shoved his hands into the pocket and mumbled his way down to the bar. His mood did not improve when he arrived. There, sitting on a barstool and staring into a glass, was Remy LeBeau. Rogue and he had evidently had a similar conversation. He lifted a hand in greeting, waving Bobby over to come sit next to him. That was suspicious. Gambit hated him with a passion, probably because he was jealous of Bobby's luck with women. It could only mean that he wanted to talk about Mercy and how he should not see her. 

"Barkeep," Remy said, "I'll have a sherry on de rocks, an' m'friend will have de Shirley Temple." 

That was a good start, Bobby thought, as he slid onto the stool next to Gambit. He was already treating him like an equal by buying him a drink. He had never heard of a Shirley Temple before, but he imagined it was one of the boozy cocktails his father liked so much. If the Cajun had the courtesy to treat him like an adult, he would respond in kind. He smiled benevolently at Gambit, even though it became somewhat fixed when the barkeeper returned with a bright, pink drink in which a twisty straw and an umbrella were balanced. 

"Ya do know she's fifty," Gambit said nonchalantly, as he handed Bobby his drink. 

For a moment, Bobby almost choked on his Shirley Temple, then he realised what Gambit must mean. He was talking about her . . . her . . . well, her unmentionables. Unsurprisingly, considering how he spent all of his free time, the Cajun had a knack for navigating the alphabet soup that was women' s . . . women's foundation garments. Every romantic anniversary at the mansion, the men of the team underwent moral crises as they had to decide between either getting the size right and giving Gambit permission to ogle their girlfriends, or getting it wrong and facing the wrath of a woman to whom size really mattered. As odd as it was that he brought up the subject of her . . . her . . . her delicates in casual conversation, the other option was still more absurd. Mercy did not look as if she were out of her twenties! She did not act that way either! There was no way that she was as old as his mother! 

"I knew that," he said, affecting what he fondly imagined to be an air of jaded sophistication. He, Robert Drake, was quite at home discussing . . . discussing that sort of thing with Remy. 

"Did ya?" he raised an eyebrow, looking surprised. 

"It's obvious, Remy." 

Gambit snorted, refilling his glass from the bottle on the counter and swallowing it in a single gulp. Bobby was mildly curious, now. Gambit was actually volunteering personal - very personal - information about his family for once in his life, and Iceman did have a question he needed answered for his personal well-being. Namely, if Mercy was his sister-in-law, who was the brother and could he run faster than Bobby? He had obviously met Henri, who had died on the lawn of the mansion with an assasin's arrow in his back, but it couldn't have been that brother. Mercy only went for hot, young studs like him, and everything had been middle-aged about Henri. As Hank would have said, his waistline had began outdistancing his hairline, which had given up and began retreating. He had even had a mutton-chop moustache. Those had gone out of fashion with frills around piano legs. So, as frightening as the thought was, there must be another LeBeau brother. 

"What happened to the husband?" inquired Bobby. 

"He's passed on," was Gambit's only reply on the subject. His eyes, however, spoke of a pain that went beyond words, while his long hands toyed absently with the glass on the bar in front of him. Bobby felt a little uncomfortable, but was also relieved he wouldn't have to worry about a jealous husband. He groped around for another discussion topic in a vain attempt to forget his faux pas as soon as possible. Weather? Too cliche. It would make him seem desperate. Politics? Too depressing. Sports? Probably not, seeing as the Cajun's tended to be indoors and played without any kit. Think, Bobby, think. 

Much to his relief, however, the women made their entrance at that point and took the burden of conversation off him. He let loose a low whistle. Both their outfits gave new meaning to the "little black dress". He had handkerchiefs that had more fabric than what either of them were wearing; than their dresses combined, if he came to think of it. Bobby felt an old, half-forgotten feeling bubble up in his chest like champagne when he saw Rogue. Her spaghetti-strap dress was an example of elegant simplicity, despite all it revealed. Apart from the few diamantes that sparkled and shimmered around the neckline, the black velvet seemed almost too plain for his friend's tastes. When she twirled to show Gambit, however, he saw that the back was a intricate, crisscrossing webbing of straps. 

Looking at Mercy, on the contrary, was like having vodka or brandy injected directly into his veins. His brain ceased functioning when he looked at her. She was wearing a black, leather dress that was cut low about her . . . her top and high about her . . . her bottom, both of which the outfit made no pretense of hiding. A circular cutout about her bellybutton showed a tattoo - a ring of red roses - while a similar, smaller one showed that her . . . her foundation garments were not as important to her as Remy's earlier casual comment had suggested. 

"Close y'mouth, man," Remy said in irritation, nudging him with his elbow, "Ya be droolin' all over ya shirt. Mind ya, considerin' de garment, it's almost an improvement." 

Bobby barely noticed Remy's crack about his dress sense, as Mercy undulated up to him and placed her mouth firmly on top of his. Her hand traced a line down his back before settling on his tush with a playful squeeze. Her other tightened around his neck in a vice-like grip. He heard a sharp hiss of indrawn breath that could only be Gambit making his disapproval known. 

Evidently noticing her boyfriend's discomfort, Rogue cleared her throat: "Guys, come on . . .It ain't right to eat dessert before dinner. Besides, watchin' y'all makes me lose mah appetite an' that's just wrong." 

"Don't t'ink she's skipped too many meals," Mercy whispered in his ear, "Not wit' hips like dat." 

All of a sudden, Bobby felt a strange twinge of disgust for the woman standing in front of him. It was like he was really seeing her for the first time. The lush, but overripe, beauty. The heavy make-up. The brassy, bottle-blond hair. The too-tight leather dress. Mercy was . . . . Before he could complete the thought, she touched her lips softly to his and his brain was swept under in another tidal-wave of testosterone. 

"Let's go, loverboy," she purred and he could only follow her. 

* * *

TBC! 


	8. Chapter 8

DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Marvel. We're not making a profit. Be warned: it has some mild innuendo and some groanworthy jokes. About waiters, flies and soup. ;) Previous parts can be found at http://www.geocities.com/textualchemy/snapshot.html 

* * *

**SNAPSHOT**  
BY KAREN AND ALEXIS  
(ABLY AIDED AND ABETTED BY KERI!)   
PART 8 

* * *

When he and Rogue returned to their hotel room after their dinner, Remy was not sure whether he should shoot Bobby or himself. The one might have been immensely satisfying and richly deserved, but the other would mean that he never had to meet anybody who had been at that restaurant again. At that moment, death seemed preferable to people recognising him as Bobby Drake and Mercy LeBeau's dinner partner. In the end, however, he settled for collapsing on the bed, loosening his tie and staring at the ceiling. 

He had not known that one dinner could go so wrong so quickly. Especially since it had started off so well too. After half-an-hour at Broussard's, he had actually been beginning to relax. For a wonder, Mercy and Bobby had been behaving themselves. They had been confining their public displays of affection to linking arms whenever they had drunk and playing footsie beneath the table. Even the memory of how he had had discovered the latter had not been enough to set him on edge again. Bobby had had cold feet, so that had been almost certainly due to the three glasses of merlot he had downed in rapid succession. And the double scotches at their hotel's bar. And the little bottles of vodka that he had found in his room's refrigerator. 

Unfortunately, by now, his system had long since burnt off the booze and the minibar was out of replacements. 

He should have known it was a mistake to relax when Bobby was around him, he told himself. Even nicely tipsy, he should have seen it coming, coming up to the table with their waiter. Remy had spotted him as Parisian import in a second. He had had that air of hating everyone of his clients for not having the same impeccable taste in clothes, food and brylcreem as himself. His white cloth had been draped over one of his arms and balancing a silver tray on the other. His nose had been held so high in the air that he probably could have seen behind him. Snootiness was always directly proportional to the quality and the price of the meal, Remy thought. People expected to be insulted by their waiter in a good restaurant. It was a sign of the sort of temperamental genius that could produce brioches and spun sugar baskets. If you wanted niceness, you might as well go to your local McDonalds. Haughtiness cost. 

Neither he nor Rogue had disgraced themselves, of course. He had spent enough years in Paris to hide his own, lazier French. And his girlfriend spoke the language exquisitely with an accent that was like the chime of silver on fine crystal. No, they had been fine. It had been all his sister-in-law's fault. 

It had been Mercy who had started them on the slippery slope. Je voudrais la pasta puttanesca, garcon, she had said, with a wink and a pout that suggested that she was all too familiar with the puttanesca part of it.* The waiter's eyebrows had contracted sharply and the corners of his waxed moustache had begun to bristle. He had probably never been called garcon, even when he had been one. Still, her error might have been forgiven, if it had not been what Bobby had chirruped next. . . . 

"Moi, je voodoo le grilled sandwich doo fromage," Remy repeated with a groan, covering his face with his hands. The waiter had gone purple at that, asking if monsieur did not mean un croque-monsieur. Naturally, Bobby had replied that he did not eat Mr. Crocodile, or Mr. Alligator, or Komodo Dragon-san either. All he wanted was a grilled sandwich doo fromage. The whole room had been laughing at them at that point – polite snickers in their napkins, which had been even worse than open, honest laughter would have been. 

"Are ya still on about that?" Rogue drawled from the bathroom where she was changing into her nightclothes. 

"Chere, he tried t'tell dere's-a-fly-in-my-soup jokes to our waiter," he said desperately, "Waiters like dat don' have a sense of humour." 

"Waiter, waiter, there's a fly in mah soup," she chuckled, "Don' yell so loud, sir, or else everyone'll want one. I thought it was cute, Rem." 

"I know he's ya friend, chere, but ya don't always have t'side wit' him," he said, wincing at the note of petulance that was creeping into his voice. It had taken Robert Drake an evening to turn him into a combination between a sulky kid and Scott Summers. 

"An' ya don't have to be so hard on him always," she shot back from the other side of the door, "He is genuinely sweet on Mercy. Boys always try an' show off around the girls they're tryin' to impress." 

"No, he's takin' advantage of her," he said darkly, "I saw dem going off t'her room together." 

"So? Why are you on your high horse about that? It ain't exactly like you're spendin' th' night alone." 

"Dat's different," he rolled onto his stomach to face the bathroom door, "We're in love. Dey're just in . . . in lust." 

Rogue emerged from it, brushing her hair. She was dressed in an old pair of blue boxers and a faded, grey t-shirt. Comfortable sleepwear was the downside of having a comfortable relationship, Remy thought wryly. Not that she had ever had much more than a passing acquaintance with lingerie. When he had bought her some for her birthday, she had taken one look at it and told him to wear it himself if he thought it was so hot. Besides, he had obviously bought it for himself, she had added with a venomous smile. He should have the pleasure of using it. Needless to say, she had gotten a book-voucher from him for Christmas. 

"Fun times," Rogue smirked, "Don't you ever miss th' days when we were just in lust with each other?" 

"I had a flashback when I saw ya wearin' dat dress," Remy admitted candidly, then grinned at her, "Speakin' of which, how have I ended up sleepin' wit' its ugly stepsister?" Ducking the hairbrush that she pitched at him, he laughed, "Aw, chere, ya know I t'ink ya're too beautiful for any outfit ever sewn. Dat's de real reason I prefer ya wit'out dem." 

Folding her arms across her chest, she smiled in bemusement at him: "It's good to have you back, LeBeau. You might have enjoyed bein' Scott Summers, but Ah missed you." 

* * *

TBC 

* * *

* Puttanesca = prostitute in Italian. The pasta sauce was traditionally made and eaten by prostitutes, apparently. 

** Croque-monsieur = the snootier cousin of the grilled, cheese sandwich J 


	9. Chapter 9

SNAPSHOT

PART 9

"Are you sure this is right?" 

"Oui, honey. Ya might be unexperienced, but I would know if we were doing dis wrong." 

"That's not what I meant."

Bobby pushed Mercy away and sat upright in their bed, clutching the sheets about his chest. She looked at him with a puzzled expression on her face. Drops of sweat formed on his forehead at the sight of her. Under normal circumstances, he would have joked about her being hot enough to make him sweat, but he was in no laughing mood. Worse, he had no idea why. This should have been the happiest night of his life. Not only was he going to get rid of the scarlet V on his chest once and for all, but a) he was not paying the woman in question and b) she was stunning. Mercy was wearing the slightest suggestion of lingerie, and had a glint in her eyes that suggested she felt she was overdressed for the occasion. He groaned and wondered what was wrong with himself. He found himself in bed with a beautiful woman, who by some miracle was attracted to him and was prepared to prove it in a very physical way, and all he could think of was Gambit. 

For the briefest of moments, Bobby wondered if the gods of his universe were writers and if they were scripting a _shonen ai_ at the moment. If so, he knew what the next, few chapters of his life held. He would declare his love for Gambit. They would overcome the bigotry of homophobic humans. One of them would succumb to a lingering and painful disease, and die. He hoped the last-mentioned would be Gambit. He could do grieving partner. Corpse was a less attractive role. And that was the better case scenario. If the writer gods were working on _yaoi_ . . . He had a suspicion it might be _yaoi_. His life had seemed curiously plotless the last few days since he had met Mercy. _Please,_ _please, don't let it be yaoi. _He shuddered at the thought. He could live quite happily without seeing Gambit _au naturel _and thinking about how manly his manliness was, thank you very much! 

Fortunately, he suspected his thoughts of Gambit had more to do with guilt than lust. In and of itself, that was peculiar. Bobby did not like the Cajun. In fact, expressing his true feelings about him would have required inventing new expletives, because all the languages in the world did not have enough to do them justice, even if he took Klingon into account. Succinctly put, however, he felt Gambit was a Grade-A PetaQ. He deserved whatever he got. So, why did he feel so bad about his relationship with Mercy? Why did he care that Gambit disapproved of it, that he was being hurt by it? Why? He sunk his head into his hands with another long moan. 

"What's wrong, baby?" he felt Mercy begin to massage his shoulders, expert fingers working out the knots and lumps, "What's doing my job an' making ya groan?" 

"This isn't right," he admitted, reluctantly shaking off her hands and climbing out of bed. He groped for his trousers and shirt on the floor, studiously keeping his back to her. He knew if he turned to look at her, he would do something - or somebody - that he would regret the next morning. She had that effect on him. When she was around, he forgot whom he was. He stopped feeling like Robert Drake, general loser, and started feeling like . . . well, the kind of guy who kicked sand in Robert Drake's face. It was intoxicating. 

"Dis be about Remy, ain't it? Forget him. I don't need my brother-in-law's permission to be wit' ya - or to _be_ wit' ya," she said airily, tugging the clothes out of his hands and tossing them into a corner, "I'm a grown woman. I make my own decisions, especially about who to let into my bed. An' thank heaven for dat - m'brother has de worst taste in men. He keeps trying to introduce me to Marcel Genard." 

There was a wry note in Mercy's voice that suggested she was profoundly grateful to have avoided meeting Marcel Genard. Shifting so that he faced her, he was struck by how beautiful she was. Her head shone golden in the electric light, giving her the look of a fallen, Renaissance angel. Beneath finely arched eyebrows, her eyes were the clear, pure colour of the summer sky. She was a classic beauty, whom any of the old masters would have sold his soul to paint. _She could have any man she wanted, so why does she want me? _

"Mercy," he asked gravely, "Why me?" 

"Isn't it obvious, mon cheri?" she said with equal seriousness, taking his large hands in her smaller ones and kissing them gently. He could still feel the warmth of her lips against his skin, as she lifted her eyes to him. In them, past his own reflection, he could see something that he thought could have been love. Her lips curved in a soft smile, then parted as she whispered: "Ya be ridiculously well-endowed." 

*

TBC

*


	10. Chapter 10

Snapshot   
Part 10

* * *

"Ah'm sure they'll be here in a sec," Rogue reassured the cab-driver, "They know we're leaving at nine." 

Shaking her head, she climbed the hotel steps to where Remy was leaning against a column and smoking. She plucked the cigarette from his mouth and ground it underfoot. He made a face at her, but only said, "How much am I gonna have t'pay him t'make up for dem being so late?" "Didn't even ask, sugah," she sighed, "An' Ah'm sure you don't want to ask why they're so late either." 

Remy shuddered, a disapproving expression on his face. Rogue laughed, slipping an arm around his waist and giving him a squeeze. She had never seen this side of Remy before Mercy came to visit them: the side that was a worse prude than Cyclops. She could have never imagined it. The man was sex personified. If sex had been anthropomorphised, it would have been 6'2 with red-on-black eyes and auburn hair. It would have even spoken in a Cajun accent, and have had a taste in clothes that tended to trenchcoats. 

She was just about to tease him about it, when she was cut off by a throaty laugh coming from within the lobby. She recognized it as Mercy. No-one else could make laughter seem like a come-on in quite the same way as she could. Raising her eyebrows significantly at Remy, she turned to greet her and Bobby, but stopped dead in her tracks. 

Mercy was not with Bobby. Mercy had her arm on a young, handsome porter's shoulder and was smiling radiantly at him. Mercy was laughing and tossing back her head in response to something he said. Mercy was stroking his back with a finger, her blue eyes as brilliant as a hunting cat's. "Ah don't bloody believe it," Rogue said angrily, "She's with Bobby, but she 's flirtin' with that loser." 

"Mercy ain't a one-man woman," Remy sounded tired, "I knew dis would happen. Dat's why I tried t'warn Drake off of her." 

Rogue forgot her anger, and stared at him incredulously. Her boyfriend was amazing. He had spent the last, few days complaining to her about how Mercy and Bobby should not be together. And every complaint had gone the same way. He could say de wrong t'ing to de wrong person at de picnic. He could start a war, because ya jus' know dat de assassins won't be unarmed and dat de t' ieves will be expectin' dat. Jus' one of his stupid comments, an' dey could be moppin' up de blood f'r weeks. Even before that, he had made no secret about how much he disliked Bobby, and Bobby had made it quite clear that he returned his feelings. As usual with boys, it had all come down to jealousy. They had forever been getting in each other's face, forever making snide comments about each other to her. No, she wasn't going to let him play Remy the Noble with her now that it was all over between the two of them. 

"Bull. Last night, you said it was because you were worried about Guild security." 

Remy arched an eloquent eyebrow, "Because Drake be such a threat t'Guild security, chere?" 

"But you don't like Bobby!" 

"Oui, but he's family," he shrugged, "All ya X-Men are. Doesn't mean I like dat I'm tryin' to protect him. Spent days convincin' myself dat it was f'r de good o' my Guilds. But . . . he's de irritatin' kid brother I didn' have. De one ya spend half ya time wantin' t'smack, an' de other half wantin' t' keep from hurtin' himself." 

Rogue let out her breath. She knew Remy well enough to know when he was being sincere, and he had meant every word of what he had said. He had said that the X-Men were his family often before, but she had not known how truly he had meant it until now. He cared for all of them with the same unconditional love that kept him coming back to his family in New Orleans time and time again. One day, there'll come a time when that man doesn't surprise me, she thought, But it won't be soon. 

"So, what are we goin' ta do?" she said eventually. 

"Get t'rough dis picnic, den pick up de pieces afterwards," he suggested with a tight smile, then added, "I see Drake comin' down de steps. We better go an' say 'hi'." 

Nodding, Rogue followed him inside the hotel. She wondered if Bobby had seen Mercy flirting with the porter, and, when she got closer to them, she knew that he had. He was trying to do his best to hide it, but she knew he was hurting. His amber eyes were dark with pain, and his mouth was a proud, tight line, as if he were trying to keep it from trembling. Mercy either had not noticed how she had wounded him, or she simply did not care. 

"Bonjour, Mers, Drake." Remy said pleasantly, "We need t'get moving, if we' re goin' t'make our picnic." 

"Oui. I'll show Girard where de cab is parked," Mercy said with an unashamed smile for the porter. Without a second glance for Bobby, she set off towards the entrance, her stillettos clickety-clacking against the floor. Girard followed her, wheeling his trolley of suitcases. Rogue shot a furious glance after her, before turning back to her friend. He was standing there, his arms hanging limp at his sides, looking as if he had been shot. 

"Bobby? Are you okay?" she touched his arm, but he shook her hand off impatiently. 

"I'm fine, Rogue. Let's have a nice day," he smiled at her, and there was something incredibly young and vulnerable about it, "Let's just have a nice day." 


	11. Chapter 11

SNAPSHOT

PART 11

BY KAREN AND ALEXIS

Considering that half the participants had concealed weapons and the other half were planning how to steal them from them, Remy thought that the Guild's picnic was going remarkably well. Admittedly, the thieves were sitting in a group by the bank of the river, while the assassins were in the shade of a spreading oak tree. The two groups had barely spoken more than a frosty 'hello' to each other the whole picnic. That didn't surprise him. To expect them to get over the animosity of several generations just because there were roasted wieners, burgers and Floating Islands involved would have been ridiculous. He was just relieved that the two groups weren't killing each other. He hoped that would last when it came to who got the last burger. 

Shielding his eyes against the sun, he looked around for the two guests from the mansion. It could be awkward to be among strangers, he told himself, and it was his duty as host to make them feel at home. The little, yellow sundress Rogue was wearing had absolutely nothing to do with it, nor did his desire to make sure that Bobby wasn't crying in a corner. After all, he reasoned, yellow wasn't her colour, and he didn't even like Bobby. 

He spotted his girlfriend first. To his surprise, she and Belle were sitting together on a bench and laughing. By the looks they kept casting at him, there was no surprise about who was at the receiving end of their jokes. He had a feeling his birthmark had been mentioned more than once in impolite conversation. He shook his head, glad at least that she was having a good time and that one of the two woman wasn't lying dead on the ground. 

"Now, where's Drake?" he muttered to himself, as he scanned the park. Here, Tante Mattie was turning burgers on the grill, and slapping Lapin's hand with the flipper whenever he tried to steal a taste of her famous bean-salad. There, a group of assassins were playing a hacky-sack, trying to outdo each other in fancy tricks. And, over there, the thieves had cards spread out on the lawn and were playing poker with potato-chips. It was a perfect day. Or would have been, if he could find that Drake. . . . 

He laughed as he finally saw his team-mate. Bobby was pelting across an open field, football tucked beneath his arm, pursued by a swarm of the Guild's children. They were rapidly gaining on him too from the horrified looks he kept casting over his shoulder. When they had gotten close enough, one of the kids launched herself at his ankles and brought him to the floor. In an instant, Bobby disappeared beneath a monkey-pile of little thieves and assassins. 

Smiling to himself, "Perhaps dere be hope f'r de future, after all." 

"An' de prize f'r worst cliche of de week goes to . . . ." Mercy's wry voice said from behind him, "Want some others? Dere be a light at de end of de tunnel, perhaps? Or de darkest hour be before de dawn? Or weeping lasts an evening, but joy comes in de morning?"

"De last is from de Bible," he said reproachfully, turning to face her, "Better not let Tante Mattie hear ya call dat one a cliche." 

She laughed and carelessly tossed back her hair, "Tante has given up on me a long time ago. She knows I never be a good, Catholic woman." 

"Ever try being a good woman?" he replied quietly. He had thought he would not mention what had happened between her and Bobby earlier, but he realised he had to say something to her. She might have seen this as a fling, but from the look on his face that morning Drake had been thinking in completely different terms. From the moment he had met Mercy, he had probably seen himself growing old and grey with her. If he had said that to her, however, she would have simply asked him 'what the hell he thought facelifts and hairdye were for.' Mercy never took anything seriously. She had never taken things seriously even while Henri had been alive. 

Mercy made a disgusted face at him, "Don't lecture me, Rem. I am what I am." 

"Oui, ya are." 

Her eyes narrowed at the accusation in his words, but she shook her head and said simply: "Let's get a photograph wit' de four of us, okay? Dat's about as permanent as I get." 

He recognised it as the only compromise Mercy was capable of making, as the only generous gesture she had made in a long time, and nodded.

 "Oui, I'll get de others." 

When a still-laughing Rogue had been called from her bench and Bobby had been excavated from beneath the squirming pile of children, the four of them arranged themselves in a pretty part of the park. 

"Hey, Belle, come photograph us," Remy called.  

Before she could reply, however, Lapin sprinted over from the barbeque with a roasted wiener in one hand and a digital camera in the other. He skidded to a halt in front of them. Behind him, a furious Tante Mattie brandished her flipper at him, as if it were an axe.

"Rather you get ya heads cut off dan me," he explained with a wink and a grin, lifting up the camera and pointed it at them, "Now, say 'we're cheesy'." 

Obediently, Remy put a smile on his face, which wasn't too hard considering that Rogue slid an arm around his waist and snuggled into his side. Beside them, Bobby flashed his usual bingo sign at the camera - Remy had long since decided that a certain masterthief needed to pinch a certain team-mate's collection of anime and hide it in a place he would never find it again. Mercy, however, had other plans for the shot. Splitseconds before the camera clicked, she grabbed his butt and squeezed it tight.

"MERCY!" Bobby exclaimed in horror. 

Chuckling throatily, "Told ya dat's what all de boys say to me . . . ."

****

With a grimace, Remy put the photograph back on the sister-in-law's dressing-table, his eyes falling on the one next to it. They widened in shock. He had not seen this one before, and he thought he could have lived quite happily without ever seeing it. It showed Mercy and Bishop sitting together on the pier in front of the boathouse, dressed in swimming costumes. Their bare feet were dangling into the water, and their arms around each other. They looked deeply in lust with each other. 

He turned away from the picture with a grim expression on his face, and went to find Mercy. His sister-in-law had a lot of explaining to do, not least of all why she was or had been corrupting his foster-son-from-an-alternate-future . . . . 

*

FIN! 


End file.
